for Amiri Baraka
As involved and still
as looking inward. Loudly
closing all the shutters at once.
Evening: sarcasm blocks
my window view
of the garden. Scarcities
of light. The shadows. The
irregular flickers. Like old
flashbulbs on the red carpet, cold
and electric. There is no silence,
John Cage says … Just the tones
of nervous system operation
& blood circulation.
My throat wants to shout
out at this tangible reality.
Although, (standing upright in thin
atmosphere from shut windows; all
the answers falling to the floor,
till your feet are bruised & knee deep
sunlight will edge between cracks
& in warm strips of faith, of truth.
There are glorious murals of lilies
on the wainscot
in the dollhouse. The dolls
sit still all day. In blue
dawn & morning dew.
Church bells, like the good
book in the nightstand, anchored in the drawer.
The lamb and the crucifix, a vision
with an ending.
I am satisfied. Pausing
in this moment, staying still,
waiting to pass this old age, the
mortal pain of body; sloughed off …
Like newborn field mice;
shivering in the nest,
until the unknowing
boot heel crushes their bones.
Use up the ugly
expanses, with full lungs
primed. Harmless lift
of human dreams. A prophet’s
Crumpling into the dirt, worms
writhing on lips. Wood
and hinges sealing the box.
and looking inward. I evaporate